Fuck the Customers

Fuck your purse full of loose change holding up a line. Fuck your complicated lottery order paid for with EBT Cash. Fuck your superstitions about the last two numbers on the scratch-offs and fuck your request to check each one. Fuck your anger at my choice not to memorize your cigarette preference, hoping desperately that the knowledge YOU exist won't replace the memory of something more beautiful than this goddamn store. Fuck your bitching about getting carded when you were born in 1992. Fuck your unsolicited opinions, your political rants, your one-upmanship at every possible response. Fuck your pride in nativity like it was something you accomplished. Fuck your bitching about Portland and your uninteresting tales about wherever you came from. Fuck your condescension. Fuck you telling me to smile. Fuck the penny jar. Fuck your dumb "Heritage, not Hate" bumper sticker when your family is from fucking Tigard. Fuck your personal questions. Fuck your insults. Fuck your lame sexual harassment bullshit that would be terrifying if it wasn't so goddamn sad. Fuck your meth "tips." Fuck your cell phone. Fuck your car. Fuck your job. Fuck you, you patronizing, racist, piece of shit dick fart.

This is the worst second-job I've ever had. I used to like everyone. Now I don’t even like myself. The only customers worth a damn are the dancers and the stoners because they don’t bother anyone and you’re neither so fuck off.